Excerpt of The Tipping Point by Walter Danley

Tuesday – early February – 1978 | He was hidden deep in the trees, fifteen yards off the ski trail— waiting—his skis pointed across the downhill slope through a small breach between the ponderosa pines. He would be ready when the time came to make his downhill run from concealment. There was no breeze and the sweet pungent pine scent was undisturbed where he bent low over his skis. He'd been waiting for twenty minutes, fresh dry snow crunching under his skis, as he shifted his body in the wait. He knew his target would come soon. The target skied this run every day at this time. It was late in the afternoon and this would be the last run of the day.

He looked over his left shoulder and saw skiers glide off the chairlift to begin their runs down Walsh's Trail. They made a sharp left turn in front of the watchers' spot where the trail pointed down the steepness of the mountain. He flexed his stiffening knees and felt them pop. Snow stacked sprigs above his head dripped onto his neck, running cold down his spine. It made him shudder. Considering what he was there to do, the Assassin thought, how appropriate is that? And he continued his wait.

It had been snowing fluffy dry powder all week, but today was sunny and warm—the top of the mountain temperature registered just above freezing. The Assassin had been shadowing his assignment for six days. The target was Thomas K. Burke, a competitive skier who pushed himself hard, taking the steepest and longest runs on the mountain. All week Burke made Walsh's Trail his last run of the day.

The ski patrol would close the high double black diamond runs at 4 p.m., in less than thirty minutes. The sun dropped early behind the 11,212 feet of Aspen Mountain. Burke would die before dusk. The Assassin continued to wait.

He got this assignment in the usual way: phone called instructions to pick up a packet from an obscure place—an out–of–the–way phone booth or an envelope taped to the underside of a coffee shop table. The call from his client, a man who called himself Dallas, instructed him to pick up these briefing materials from a dumpster outside the back door of a Denver restaurant. Stinking of garbage and fried fish, the envelope contained background information on the target and his photo. It also included specifics needed to make this hit and the deposit slip from his offshore bank confirming payment for services. He learned long ago, you need to be paid up–front before doing any heavy lifting.

He looked with pleasure at this assignment. Not that killing was agreeable to his disposition; he never felt that about any of his assignments. He was not an enthusiastic killer. Capable and efficient, yes. Successful. At the top of his profession. But he did not enjoy ending a life—it was his job, what he did. He accepted it as the price to pay for wealth, and he very much liked what that brought. He was productive in his work and a prudent investor. The Assassin had amassed a considerable fortune.

He was a highly trained professional, thanks to the Israeli army and Mossad. Like many veterans, his military training led to a civilian career. He was trained to be a killer. Well, it pays a lot more than a sniper or hand–to–hand combat and all that other killing shit, he reasoned. Hitting a target with a high–powered rifle at a thousand yards was not easy, but it was impersonal. This assignment would put him up close to his target. Shit! he thought to himself. The pleasure he had was skiing Aspen. It was like a paid vacation. Of course, it was not anything like a vacation, but it was handsomely paid. He memorized the briefing materials before burning them. His man Burke, a wealthy Boston real estate guy, sold his firm to a Seattle investment company a year ago. Now he was a director on its Board and advisor to the firm. That's cushy, director and advisor. I wonder if he gets two paychecks?

Burke's wife and another couple joined him on this skiing holiday; this had not been in the briefing materials. Apparently, his client did not know they were going to be here. Maybe that means there are other faults in the briefing materials. A big mistake. He did not allow himself to make mistakes and was intolerant of others who did.

The Assassin observed the two couples for almost a week. He learned from lodge staff that the other couple was a man named Garth Wainwright. His lady companion was Lacey ... something. She was Burke's Boston business attorney. Wainwright was a West Coast executive at the firm that bought Burke's and was apparently dating Lacey, he assumed, as they shared the same lodge suite.

Wainwright, the other guy, looked like he was thirty–five, maybe early forties. He would not be trying out for an Olympic ski team berth but was an adequate recreational skier. He walked with a slight limp in his left leg, but dressed well, in designer ski suits on the slopes. Off, he wore custom made monogrammed dress shirts and Tony Lama boots. Boots with jeans or with trousers and sports coat ... they seemed to be a signature feature. He was intrigued. A West Coast Cowboy. What fun.

He judged Wainwright to be close to his own size and build. Just short of six feet and weighed about 180 pounds or so. He moved with deliberate confidence. This was no office weenie. This guy had been there and done that! His salt and pepper hair was worn longish for an executive. He sported a short, well–trimmed full beard of the same hue. The beard and hair looked natural, not dyed. He may not be a phony after all. However, if this dude gets in my way....